


Taffeta, Darling

by Fire_Sign



Series: Phrack Fucking Fridays [16]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, pff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-25 12:51:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12531824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: After a long stake out at a fabric warehouse, Jack is asleep and Phryne is bored.





	Taffeta, Darling

**Author's Note:**

> So, a few months back I was writing some smut and used some really cliche, bad purple prose style smut, including my own personal bug bear. Once I saw it I couldn't unsee it, so I wrote some silly fabric-based smut to make up for it.

It was early morning, and Phryne couldn’t sleep. Jack was apparently having no such difficulties, and was snoring softly; she could hardly begrudge him, seeing as how their plans for the night before had been superseded by a ridiculous stakeout at a fabric warehouse that had turned up nothing by the time they’d called it quits at three in the morning. And as her home was closer--by negligible amounts, even at 3am, but Phryne was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth--they had both returned to Wardlow. Letting him sleep was the kindest thing.

Unfortunately for Phryne, she was wide awake and bored. And since she had no intention of getting out of bed at this time of the morning, she allowed her mind to wander instead.

There were plenty of things to recommend sex with Jack Robinson, but Phryne was still surprised that the nonsensical conversations that occasionally peppered their lovemaking topped the list. The teasing familiarity was unexpected--she had thought he would be more serious, more focused, that she would have to draw him from his shell over time, and sometimes he was. But more often he was delightfully at ease and confident. Laughter was as much a part of their encounters as the act itself, and Phryne adored it. Adored him, hair loose and smiling. Adored the way he drew out her own mischievousness, not that she’d ever needed the encouragement. She shifted restlessly, her body aching with arousal just at the thought, and beside her Jack rolled over and made a quiet murmur.

“Jaaack,” she wheedled.

He snored again.

Well, there was always taking matters into her own hands. She trailed her hands down her body, her fingers slipping over the silk of her nightgown to press against her clit. She circled it with practiced ease, until a familiar tension began to grow and she was shifting against the sheets in search of release.

Jack rolled over again, making a huffing sound, his hand coming to sprawl across her thigh; she paused to see if he was awake, making a needy little sound when his calloused fingertips brushed against her skin. A rumble from his chest came in response, and he moved closer--his head in the nook of her neck, lips against her throat and stubble tickling; his body warm and sure against hers; his hand still stroking against her thigh.

She moaned, biting her lip as her fingers kept moving over her clit, imagined his fingers filling her until she was on the precipice, desperate for the last touch to send her tumbling over…

“What do you want?”

His voice was low and gravelly and carried the promise of pleasure, but she was so close, so tight, breath short, ready, aching, desperate to tip over, fingers moving faster, harder, so close but not enough, oh god not enough, she needed, she needed--

“Jack!” she gasped. Not pleaded, never pleaded, but oh how she needed him, wanted his fingers and his lips and--his hand moved, his fingers brushing against her entrance but never breaching; she thrust down, fucking herself on his fingers even as she played with her clit, her orgasm fast and hard and pushing all the air from her lungs as she came with a grunting sob.

“Jack,” she laughed when she had regained control of herself once more, her limbs still heavy and pleasantly aching. “That was cruel.”    

He’d removed his fingers, looking at her languidly as he licked them clean.

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” he remarked.

“I usually do,” she replied, arching an eyebrow in playful reprimand, “but usually I don’t have to work quite that hard for it either.”

A smirk. “Perhaps it will do you some good then.”

She laughed, rolling onto her side to face him, reaching out to grasp his erection.

“Mmm, what was that?” she asked. “You think I should work harder for this--” she cast her mind for a suitably ridiculous word, and remembered their activities the night night before “--magnificent velvet cock?”

Jack snorted. “Velvet?”

“Do you not like the word?” Phryne asked, attempting to look wide-eyed and innocent and not at all as if she’d start giggling any second.

“It feels a little… _off_ , I’ll admit.”

She stroked his cock again, tilting her head as if in contemplation.

“Mmmm, silk, perhaps.”

His lips quirked. “Only the finest quality silk, I hope.”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Perhaps it’s more… high thread-count cotton?”

“Cotton is a very versatile fabric,” he agreed, grunting as her hand sped up.

“There’s always wool, I suppose,” she pressed her lips against his chest, “or linen.” Her tongue darted out. “Organza.”

“Taffeta?” he suggested.

She lost it then, giggling madly even as her hand pumped him. He was breathing heavily now, the tendons on his neck straining; she licked one, smirking at the way his breath caught.

“I know,” she said, smiling as she brought him undone. “ _Burlap_.”


End file.
